


I've been at war for so long.

by D_writes



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Domestic BoP, Established Relationship, F/F, Food, Gen, Helena is more Italian than usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_writes/pseuds/D_writes
Summary: One shot exploring a bit of Helena's Italian heritage and some habits she brought with her from the old continent.
Relationships: Helena Bertinelli & Dinah lance & Cassandra Cain, Helena Bertinelli/Dinah Lance
Comments: 21
Kudos: 195





	I've been at war for so long.

Cassandra loves Sunday lunches at Helena’s.

She loves running up the two flights of stairs to reach her apartment, bang on her door, and sprint in like an excited puppy to see what food she’s preparing.

Every Sunday, like clockwork, she meets Dinah in the hall of their run down building and jumps into her convertible without even opening the door. Every Sunday, they stop by Montoya’s flat and she’s sent to the back seat. Every Sunday, Helena cooks them something different.

Cassandra’s never had a family tradition before, and barely knew food existed outside the realm of microwaved meals and breakfast cereals. Dinah isn’t too far off when it comes to variety, and Montoya, well... Montoya’s diet is mainly liquid.

It all started when Helena mentioned she could make a mean parmigiana, but never got to cook it because “It’s not worth the effort to make it for myself, I’m going to eat the same thing for the entire week!” The rest of the Birds of Prey didn’t really grasp the problem until they realised Helena never eats the same thing two meals in a row.

“Are you kidding me?” Dinah scoffed when she had explained it to her.

“No... that’s how I grew up. Food’s very important in my family. We’re Italian.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Montoya interjected.

“I don’t know, we... we don’t eat just to survive. We enjoy our food, eating and cooking it. And we always have our meals together, so coming to the States has been a little... different.”

It was the first time Dinah and Renee had realised that even if she was brought up by assassins in a remote Italian village, she was isolated, but not _alone_. She had her own family - dysfunctional, yes, but with its own habits, rituals, and values. So they learnt that even if there was lady cooking during the week - Carmela, she called her - Sundays were special. There was no training, for a start. Instead, they would go to church, walk around the village to chat with the locals, then go back home and cook together.

“Massimo would usually make a big meal for everybody, Luca was in charge of going to the bakery and get fresh pastries, and Salvatore would select the wine from their cellar. I was only allowed to cut garlic for years.”

Cassandra loves Helena’s stories. She’s spent most of her life on the other side of the ocean, after all. Everything is so different over there.When Helena tells her about the lemon trees in her garden, the wild rocket growing between wall cracks, and sunbathing tailless lizard, Cassandra can’t get enough.

Every Sunday, they’re invited over so Helena can cook those meals designed to be shared, and it’s Cassandra’s favourite day.

Today is one of those Sundays.

By the time Dinah’s done parking, Cassandra’s already jumped out of the car and managed to engulf Helena in a hug.

“Hey, scricciolo” Helena greets her, and ruffles her hair.

“What does that mean?” Cassandra asks, peeking at the ingredients on the countertop.

“It’s a very, very tiny bird.” she explains “I’m making fresh gnocchi.”

Dinah’s face falls, mouth opened in awe. She’s still not used to the fact that those fancy recipe can be made at home. Helena would object that they’re not fancy at all, but she understands it’s a matter of perspective.

“I brought this... Montepulchiano? Delli Ab-Abru?” Dinah shows the bottle of red wine she’s holding, and Helena gives it a quick look, reading the familiar name.

“Montepulciano degli Abbruzzi? Nice pick.” She says, taking the bottle from her hand, and places a soft kiss on her lips.

Dinah would be lying if she said that perfect Italian accent didn’t do anything to her. There's a particular inflection, a way Helena opens her vowels at the end of every other word, that she finds particularly pleasant. It makes her feel giddy like a little girl.

“Yeah, that one” she nods, feeling her lips stretching into a smile she can’t really hold back.

“I got the cannoli from that place you recommended” Montoya adds “should I put them in the fridge?”

“No no no” Helena rushes to take the neatly wrapped package “They get all saggy. They only need to last until the end of the meal.”

“Can I have one now?” Cassandra asks because of course she does.

“Absolutely not!” Helena replies, horrified. “Go set the table.”

“Why me?”

“That’s the children’s job.”

“I’m not a child.”

“Yes, you are. Do you guys want an something to drink while you wait?” Helena offers, and Dinah thinks that maybe Sunday’s also her favourite day.

* * *

Something Dinah came to discover is that Helena hums and sings under her breath a lot. She’s doing it right now, as she grabs a dollop of dough, rolls it over a chopping board until it looks like a small snake, then quickly cuts perfectly sized dumplings.

“Here, take this” Helena hands Cassandra a cheese grater and shows her how to roll the gnocchi over it and then flick them onto the table, leaving a rough texture on one side, and the dent of her thumb on the other side. “It holds the sauce better” she explains with a wink.

Cass has recently removed her cast and is still struggling to regain full mobility of her hand, so her first attempt fails miserably. Helena shows her again, and then she guides her hands to do a third one. Tongue peeking out of the side of her mouth, Cassandra is determined to learn.

“Why don’t you grate some parmigiano?” Helena asks Dinah.

“Because she’s using the cheese grater?” Dinah says, smug.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Helena scoffs, pulling out a second, bigger cheese grater.

It’s cute, Dinah thinks, how Helena assigns tasks and teaches them the very basics of cooking. Even Montoya has allocated herself the very important duty of stirring the sauce while sipping her whiskey. It’s not about optimising time, or the fact that Helena wouldn’t be able to do it by herself. If anything, Dinah thinks she’d be far more efficient if she were to. It’s about doing it together.

“I thought you didn’t like to work in a team” she points out, grating cheese without much conviction.

“This is different” Helena’s answer is quick and almost offended “This is not work.”

“It’s not?”

“Of course not. It’s food!”

“I don’t follow.” Dinah feels confused, but it’s not the first time her girlfriend’s logic is lost on her.

“Massimo used to say: food is sacred. The Earth gave us this gift, we must respect it, and we must enjoy it together, to show our gratitude.” Imitating his strong accent. “I guess it kinda stuck.”

“You’re full of surprises” Dinah says, almost to herself.

* * *

“Oh my god they are so soft!” Montoya moans as a dumpling melts in her mouth.

“How are you managing to eat them? They’re way too hot!” Dinah wonders, watching the vapour over her plate.

“What was the song you were singing earlier?” Casandra asks, out of the blue.

“Which song?”

“You were singing a song in your language. It sounded like a lullaby, or a children’s poem.”

Helena remembered, then, the song she was singing.

“Oh, it’s an old Italian song about the Great War. It’s actually pretty sad, and definitely not for children. I don’t know why it came to my mind.”

“I thought all Italian songs were about love.” Montoya noted, mouth full of gnocchi.

“A lot of them are are.”

“So what does it say?” Cassandra insists “Can you sing it for me?”

Helena needs to think about it for a moment. She’s listened to that song so many times, the lyrics have almost lost their meaning. She needs to fish for them in her memory, and then translate it.

“Oh, it’s hard” she realises “I don’t want to lose the poetry in the translation.”

The three women look at her as if she had grown a third head.

“The poetry?” Montoya scoffs “Since when you care about poetry?”

“My language is all about poetry” Helena shrugs her shoulders, as if she had just said the most normal, obvious thing. As if she weren’t a cold-blooded killer with rage issues and a death wish. Dinah looks at her and wonders if she’ll ever stop getting to know her.

Helena sings under her breath to remind herself of the lyrics.

_Dormi sepolto in un campo di grano,_  
_non è la rosa, non è il tulipano,_  
_che ti fan veglia dall’ombra dei fossi,_  
_ma sono mille papaveri rossi._

“Sleep, buried in a field of wheat,  
no rose nor tulips watch over your sleep  
but a thousand red poppies  
on the side of a ditch.”

Helena scrunches her now, not entirely pleased with her translation.

“That’s creepy” Cass comments.

“It’s the story of a soldier who’s marching towards the enemy lines. He marches the whole winter and finally gets there in spring. One day, he sees a soldier with a different uniform - an enemy - and has to kill him.”

“Pretty standard war stuff” Montoya notes.

“But when he sees him, he doesn’t have the heart to shoot him. He says:

If I were to shoot him in his heart or head  
he’ll only have time to know that he’s dead  
but it’ll be long enough for me to understand  
the look in the eyes of a dying man.”

Silence has fallen on to the table, forks are lifted mid-air. Cass, Renee and Dinah are now listening, intrigued.

“Anyway the other guy sees him, gets scared and shoots him first.”

“What?” Cassandra squeaks, horrified.

“Come on!” Dinah adds, “I was rooting for him.”

“I told you guys it was a sad song!” Helena scoffs, a little irritated “Why don’t we just eat?”

* * *

The rest of the meal proceeds without any major commotion, apart form Cass whining she’s too full for dessert while inhaling an entire cannolo. Helena makes coffee on a stovetop and serves it in tiny expresso cups. The first time she did it, Dinah looked in the 3 ounces cup and asked is she was taking the piss, but now she’s learnt to savour coffee in small, concentrated quantities. Renee, however, had filled up a mug with hot water and dumped her espresso in without breaking eye contact with Helena, who almost had an aneurism.

Uncaffeinated, full up, and having lost multiple games of briscola - a card game Helena had taught them using her old, illustrated deck - Cass is soundly sleeping on an armchair.

“She looks so quiet when she sleeps” Dinah comments, lifting Helena’s arm and laying on the sofa with her head on her lap.

“Mh” Helena replies, but her mind is somewhere else.

_Cadesti a terra senza un lamento_  
_e ti accorgesti in un solo momento_  
_che il tempo non ti sarebbbe bastato_  
_a chieder perdono per ogni peccato_

Dinah looks up and watches Helena bite the skin on the side of her thumb, she see her tongue flicking out to feel the texture of her nail, her fingertip tapping on her tooth. Her eyes are looking at something in the distance - further than any of them have ever been, Dinah thinks.

_Cadesti a terra senza un lamento_  
_e ti accorgesti in un solo momento_  
_che la tua vita finiva quel giorno_  
_e non ci sarebbe stato ritorno._

“What are you thinking about, babe?”

Helena locks her thumb inside her fist. She’s tried to loose that bad habit but it still comes out from time to time.

“I was thinking about that old song.”

“Still?”

Dinah takes her hand kisses her knuckles, running a finger on the irritated skin of Helena’s thumb.

“I listened to that song so many times, I kinda forgot what it was about.”

“And what is it about?”

“It’s about the fact that there are no good men in a war. You’re either a killer or you’re dead.” Helena pauses for a moment, almost waiting for a thought to form in her mind. “As he falls to the ground, the soldier’s last words are:

My love, it takes too much courage to die in May,  
I’d rather go in winter if it has to be this way.

This guy is in the middle of a war and all he can think of is: the world is too beautiful for me to die now. A man who doesn’t lose his humanity can’t survive the war.... and I’ve been at war for so long. What does that make me?”

Theres a muffled snoring coming from Cassandra, and a clicking of dishes Montoya is washing in the kitchen. An empty wine glass is on the coffee table between mandarin peels and pistacchio shells. Dinah sits up and leans against Helena’s shoulder, her touch bringing Helena back from that faraway place she keeps going back to.

“Helena, look around” she says, an encouraging smile on her lips “you’re not at war anymore. Let the soldier die: you’re something else now.”

“And what is that?”

Dinah raises an eyebrow, and looks around the room, at Cassandra Cain, teenage thief, at Renee Montoya, ex-alcoholic ex-cop, at a reflection of Dinah Lance, meta-human singer, she catches in a mirror.

“You’re our family.”

Helena tilts her head, a smile tugging her lips, and she thinks that maybe the war is over, and the world is still too beautiful for her to die.

**Author's Note:**

> The song, for those who are interested, is https://open.spotify.com/track/1lNop22I4dLz5MYuc60fUX?si=19hTp1fbSRuqhZcpc2la8A
> 
> EDIT: A whole playlist of music Helena would listen to while growing up in Italy https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2Z9LRo5xBmSksTJmMP7n5A?si=EpSHiCWdTpiGILKYcFPHfQ


End file.
